The week before my preliminary vows, I was ready to tear my hair out with frustration.
Mikael had been avoiding me since Dominic's little intervention and our intimate little moment in his car. Seven days of cancelled lessons, of him disappearing when I entered a room, of his eyes sliding away from mine during services.
All that effort, all that careful seduction, and for what?
He's more locked down than ever.
Even Sister Agnes had noticed, asking gently if everything was alright between us.
It wasn't, and I knew that if I didn't act soon, I'd lose him entirely—to his guilt, to his vows, to the Order's expectations. All my careful work would crumble, and with it, my only protection against my family's hunt.
The problem was that conventional seduction wasn't working.
Mikael had too much self-control, too much investment in his identity as a good priest. I could crack his defenses, make his breath catch and his hands shake, but I couldn't break through them completely.
Not unless I changed the game entirely.
The plan crystallized over several sleepless nights, born from desperation and ruthless calculation.
Father Atticus held evening prayers in the chapel at nine o'clock every night, alone—I'd watched his schedule for weeks. Mikael walked the cathedral grounds at the same time, part of his nightly routine.
If I could get them both in the chapel at the right moment, if Atticus saw something he couldn't ignore… It was manipulation on a scale I'd never attempted.
It was also cruel, especially to Mikael. But cruelty was what my family had taught me, and survival was the only virtue I had left.
On the chosen night, I intercepted Mikael in the courtyard. He was walking the perimeter as expected, his footsteps echoing off ancient stones. When he saw me approach, his entire body went rigid.
"Wren. You shouldn't be out here alone, it's late."
"Walk with me?" I asked, making my voice soft, vulnerable. "Please? I know things have been... difficult between us lately. But I'd like to talk."
He hesitated, and I could see the war in his expression.
He'd been so careful to avoid being alone with me, but something in my face, the carefully arranged mix of sadness and hope, convinced him to nod. "Of course. But just for a few minutes."
I guided him toward the chapel, keeping our conversation light and meandering.
Safe topics that let him relax slightly, perhaps believing I'd accepted his distance. That this was just friendly conversation between a priest and a woman considering religious life.
"The autumn has been beautiful this year," I said as we climbed the chapel steps. "I've never seen leaves change color like this before. Where I grew up, the seasons weren't so... dramatic."
"Where did you grow up?" he asked, genuine curiosity warming his voice for the first time in days.
"Far from here," I said vaguely. "Somewhere that didn't have seasons like this. Somewhere way colder."
All technically true, though not in the way he'd assume.
He pushed open the heavy chapel doors, and we stepped inside together. The vast space was dimly lit by votive candles, their flames casting dancing shadows across stone walls.
Mikael's shoulders had relaxed during our walk—he was buying into the fiction that this was just friendly conversation, that I'd accepted his distance.
Which made this the perfect moment to strike.
I let silence settle between us for a few heartbeats, watching him in my peripheral vision as he genuflected toward the altar. When he straightened and turned toward me, probably expecting more small talk about the weather or my upcoming vows, I let the mask slip entirely.
"I lied," I said quietly, turning to face him fully. "When you asked for space. When I pretended I could give it to you."
The change in his posture was immediate—from relaxed to rigid in an instant. "Wren…"
"I can't stop thinking about you." I stepped closer, watching his breath catch exactly as I'd know it would.
Yes, he was devastatingly attractive for a priest—the kind of face and body that could make smarter women stupid—but I kept my mind clinical, focused.
This was only a performance, a survival. Right?
"I've tried. God knows I've tried. But when I close my eyes, you're there. When I try to pray..." A bitter laugh escaped, perfectly timed to sound vulnerable. "I don't even know how to pray properly. But if I did, you'd be what I asked for."
I cataloged his response with cold precision: the way his pupils dilated, how his throat worked as he swallowed hard, the tremor in his hands. All useful data, all weaknesses I could exploit.
Except it doesn't feel like exploitation when he's looking at you like that.
I shoved the sudden thought down.
"This isn't… We can't…" But he didn't move away. Didn't back up even an inch. His hands were fisted at his sides, his whole body rigid with the effort of restraint.
"Tell me you don't feel it," I whispered, moving closer until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll leave. I'll transfer to another parish, you'll never have to see me again."
The silence stretched between us, heavy with months of unspoken desire. I could see him struggling, could practically feel the battle raging inside him.
His jaw clenched, and I watched a muscle jump in his throat.
"I can't tell you that," he said finally, his voice rough and breaking on the words. "God help me… I can't."
I kissed him before he could change his mind, before that iron control could snap back into place. For a heartbeat he was frozen, caught between shock and desire and everything he'd sworn not to do.
Then his hands were in my hair, pulling me closer with a desperate hunger that made my knees weak, and he was kissing me back like a man starving. Like every sermon he'd preached about resisting temptation had just gone up in flames.
Oh. Oh God.
We stumbled backward until I was pressed against the altar, his body covering mine, his mouth hot and desperate against my lips.
His hands shook as they framed my face, and when he pulled back to stare at me with wonder and terror, I nearly forgot this was supposed to be manipulation.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice wrecked. "Please, Wren. Tell me to stop."
I should. This was the plan—seduce him, compromise him, use it. Cold. Clinical. Effective. But I pulled him back down, letting my fingers tangle in his dark hair, feeling how soft it was, just like I'd imagined.
"I know we shouldn't. I know this is wrong," I said against his lips. "But I can't help how I feel about you…"
He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands moved down my sides, over my ribs, my waist, learning the shape of me like he was memorizing every curve. And the way he touched me, like I was something precious, something worth cherishing instead of using… It made something crack open in my chest.
Focus. Remember why you're doing this. Don’t you dare to fall for him. Remember—
The chapel doors crashed open. "Mikael."
Father Atticus's voice cut through the candlelit space like a blade.
We sprang apart, guilty and disheveled—my lips swollen from his kisses, his hair and shirt a mess from my hands, that white collar askew. The evidence of our sin written all over us in the flickering candlelight.
Perfect timing.
Cardinal stood in the doorway, his face carved from granite. Behind him, Brother Dominic wore an expression of grim satisfaction, as if he'd been expecting exactly this scene.
"Father Atticus," Mikael started, his voice raw. "I can explain…"
"Can you?" Atticus stepped into the chapel, his footsteps echoing with terrible finality. "Can you explain how you've defiled this sacred space with your lust?"
His voice was cold, clinical, as he described the process of excommunication. How everything Mikael had worked for his entire life would crumble to ash while he stood frozen, guilt-stricken, unable to defend himself.
I could see him collapsing inward, drowning in shame and self-recrimination.
"The woman should be removed from the premises immediately," Brother Dominic stepped forward, his pale eyes fixed on me with open disgust. "I always knew there was something wrong with her."
That's when I played my final card. "We're engaged."
The words dropped into the chapel's silence like stones into still water. Cardinal froze mid-gesture as Mikael's head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with shock.
"We've been secretly engaged for weeks. I know it's unorthodox, I know he should have come to you sooner… But our feelings were genuine.”
I kept my gaze fixed, forcing my voice to remain steady despite my racing heart.
“We intended to do this properly—to request dispensation, to marry within the church's blessing. We were just... weak. Just tonight. Surely God can forgive human weakness in the name of love."
The silence stretched interminably. I could feel Mikael staring at me, could practically hear his mind racing as he processed the escape I was offering—the lie that would save his position, his reputation, everything he'd built his life around.
"Is this true?" Father Atticus asked, his voice deadly quiet. "You intended to marry this woman?"
Mikael looked at me, and I saw the exact moment he made his choice. The moment he decided that survival mattered more than truth.
"Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's true."